


The Errors of Faith

by xaviul



Series: The Road to Faithfulness [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaviul/pseuds/xaviul
Summary: The ramshackle hut at the end of the row has always been a place that the rest of the ghetto knows to avoid- for there live the devil-touched woman and the man she ensnared, and their horrible ever-expanding brood of spawn. Everyone knows and whispers of the things they get up to in the night, the chanting and the barely-hidden sigils of their wicked ways.Everyone, it seems, save their youngest children. Ermine is one of the middle children of their brood of 10, but he feels he's plenty mature enough to start getting some answers- if only his parents agreed.Just an exercise in character/background building for the Tiefling who will eventually take on the name of Faithfulness, a paladin of Tyr no matter his dark origins or the Abyss-taint of his blood.





	The Errors of Faith

The squalling of your mother’s latest git left you tossing and turning all night.

 

As soon as she had been able to get the parasite to eat more than just milk she’d abandoned you all once more for whatever temptations the night offered her. Your father had never ceased in his outings, not even when your mother had been laboring so long your oldest sister had worried the baby would kill the both of them. But they’d survived, the both of them.

 

When it squalls and squalls, you sometimes wish they- or at least  _ it- _ hadn’t.

 

It was just hungry, your second oldest sister had said, trying to offer it mercy even when the lines around her mouth were tight. She’d tried all night to soothe it, pacing the floors of your ramshackle house while it wailed in her arms, trying to get it to eat the grains your eldest brother had brought back for it. Babies were such needy things, always complaining when they didn’t know how well they had it.

 

Knowing that your mother could be carrying another one already, with her track record, just sours your mood even further.

 

But your bitterness goes unnoticed in the usual bustle of the morning, with so many bodies packed in to a space that couldn’t really support it. Your family spills from the kitchen to the main room to right outside the bedroom where you and the younger children sleep, and you have to watch your hooves when you spot your oldest brother sprawled out across the hallway floor, cradling a bowl of whatever gruel was your breakfast today.

 

“Jackal,” you say as you clear his legs, turning to face him full on. You aren’t whining- whining is for babies, and last night has shown you how little crying works for a person. “Aren’t I big enough to move in to the older kids room with you? I’m not a baby anymore, I want to stay with you.”

 

Your brother doesn’t have your coloring. Your mother has always said that your blood’s blessing worked differently for you all, so you all looked differently. One time Crow had made a joke that perhaps it was more than the blood that was different, but your mother had hit her so hard her cheek had bruised and that had been the end of that.

 

Your brother just looked more human, more like your father. He had his same rosy complexion, his wavy hair- still black, like your own, but less stark. His horns are smaller, laying so close to the skull that when he wears his hair right, you can barely notice them at all. His eyes are still solid, but the white of them is easier to hide when he has his eyelids drooped low over them, filtering the rest of them through thick eyelashes.

 

Plus, he has feet. Most of your siblings get feet, and shoes and when he wraps his tail just right and wears something baggy, he looks human enough that he has a job. It’s just mucking out stalls and hauling water for one of the inns, but it gets your family enough coin to keep going. Plus, sometimes he charms tips out of visitors, or gets the innkeeper’s daughter to slip him extra food for all your hungry mouths. He got your mother’s beauty, the same way the rest of you had.

 

“You just want to move because you know all of us are out most of the night,” he accuses, in that lazy drawl of his that always makes you wonder if he’s serious or not. “That way, you can just sleep right through the baby’s crying, is that it Worm?”

 

You huff, chin raising as you stomp a hoof- it’s only after you do it that you realize that you’re sulking, but you can’t care too much. “I’m not a  _ worm,”  _ you bite off, and when he just chuckles at your offense you huff. “Stop calling me that!”

 

“It’s what big brothers do, they pick on their siblings. Run along and get some grub before it’s all gone, will you? It was a long night, father might want seconds.” Jackal raises his bowl, conversation clearly over in his head, and you realize you’re fighting a losing battle. Jackal might trick a lot of people, but he never lies to you. If he’s giving you a warning, it’s best that you heed it.

 

So you turn to navigate through the hall, passing by Crow and Raven perched on the stairs that lead up to the loft with their heads pressed together. They’re  _ always  _ together, so close that they were practically twins. Mother had Raven and then had Crow right after, so soon that for part of the year they share the same age. Whatever they’re conspiring about, you know you don’t want to get yourself involved in it. You just want to eat, and hope that your parents are going to go rest and then spend the afternoon and evening with the family.

 

Neither of them work, not really. Sometimes your father gets quick jobs here and there, but never anything that lasts for more than a few nights. He likes to gamble with whatever he earns too, and nights where he comes out with more than he started with are rare. He’s seated at the table with a heaping bowl in front of him, itching at the slowly receding line of his hair with the handle of his spoon as he reads a letter. You’re curious about whatever it is that has his attention, but drawing him down on you this early isn’t in your best interest.

 

Instead, you scuttle over to where your mother is bent over the stove, patiently scrapping the pot for every bit of liquid it contained.

 

Once upon a time, your mother was pretty. You knew that- she talked about it more often than almost anything, how all of you got your looks from her. As if a pretty face could detract from the other things she gave you all, but no one dares speak about that near her.

 

But all her beauty has faded, weathered and chipped like the paint on the walls. Sometimes you imagine that you can see where her colors have worn away, when you’re upset. When you had been smaller, you used to think she hung the moon in the sky.

 

Now, you just never knew how to feel about her. Your sister Fox says it’s puberty making you sullen, but you think anyone with a brain wouldn’t like your life much at all.

 

Still, there’s security in knowing that among your siblings, you’re your mother’s favorite. Even father isn’t as harsh on you as he can be on your siblings because of it, and when your mother notices you standing near her she immediately slides the bowl she’s been preparing near you. It’s a bit burnt, being the gruel near the bottom of the pot that got too much heat, but you’ve long learned not to be picky.

 

“Thanks, mom,” you chirp as you seek out a spoon that’s not already in use. No such luck, but when your mother sees you searching she offers you the long-handled ladle she was just using to dish out portions. Her eyes glow when she looks at you, like they always do- that’s how you know you’re her favorite. There’s never any of that warmth when she looks at Jackal, or Fox, or any of the others- except sometimes, when you have to share her love with your second-youngest sister. Spider has hooves, same as you, but she looks more like your mother. They’re both all red, from the tips of their horns to the soles of their feet. 

 

Still, your sister isn’t in the room now, and you preen under the attention as you eat. You know as soon as the meal is over both your parents will retire to their rooms, exhausted by their night out. The bags under their eyes never fade completely, but you’ve learned that that’s just part of adulthood- all your older siblings get the same tired look before long, when they’re old enough to go out with your parents. Being an adult is hard work, you’ve always assumed.

 

You just want to be old enough to leave the younger kids and their squalling behind you. If you’re going to get stuck staying up all night, better it be with the adults.

 

The few seating options in the kitchen are already filled, so you stay standing as you eat. It’s the sort of chaotic mess that your mornings always are, Coyote as dutiful as ever with caring for your younger sisters at the table. Rabbit is helping with the baby as Coyote bends over Spider and Snake, making sure they eat their food rather than play with it. With Father so close, it’s an easy task- everyone knows better than to be wasteful under his eye.

 

Watching Rabbit too long is a bad idea for you though. The longer you watch, the more jealous you get of your slightly-older sister. She’d gotten to go out with the adults months ago, and you couldn’t see why she got to go when she was only a year or so older. You were just as mature as she was, and you didn’t cry when you found mice in the larder like she did.

 

“Mom?” You pitched your voice up, as sweet as the sugar you so rarely got to taste. Your mother is scrubbing out the pot now, her back to you, but you can tell by the way her scrubbing slows that she’s listening to you. Emboldened, you press on. “When can I go out with you, and Jackal, and Crow, and all the others?”

 

The look she gives you over her shoulder is hard to read, the usual glow in her eyes banked as her lips thin. “You’re still so little, my little Ermine,” she tells you, and when you frown she sighs. “I’m bigger than Rabbit, and she gets to go,” you sulk, and when Rabbit turns to look at you you resist the urge to stick your tongue out at her. You’re too  _ mature  _ for that, now.

 

“You’re still too young,” your mother counters as she turns, her hands on her hips. “I can hardly even get you to do your chores, let alone trust you with- anything else,” she says, odd and choked off. Before you can latch on to it, she’s turning to point at the buckets next to the stove. “If you’re done eating, you can go bring us up some water and help Coyote with the wash.”

 

She can see your dejection- you aren’t trying hard at all to hide it. Maybe that’s what makes her soften, just a bit, as she turns back to her pot. “Maybe if you show commitment to your chores, and if He wills it, you can go out with us.” It’s not certain, but it’s a bit of hope. You’re used to living under this mysterious He and what he wishes of your family, but all your questions about Him had always been smothered with the idea that you’ll learn when you’re older. Adults get all the knowledge and, as far as you’re concerned, all the fun.

 

You scrape the last bits out of your bowl with a sigh, casting a glum look at the waiting buckets. You’ve always hated having to haul the water for everything, but- if you do it now, and keep up with it, maybe you’ll be seen as mature. And adults didn’t have to do so many chores as the kids did.

 

So you scoop up the buckets to trudge out of the kitchen, trying to pep yourself up as you exit the house in to the chill morning air and down the muddy path that threads all the shacks out here together. It can be treacherous out for some people, living in what was often a community of thieves and criminals, but your family has never had trouble. No one wants to cross a family with a devil’s protection in their veins, and the ice that you can conjure has always been enough to keep you and your kin safe. 

 

All you had to do was worry about all the negatives that come with it, and the way that most refuse to deal with your family in any way they can get away with. The fear and the hate has always isolated you, and that’s why you’re sometimes glad for your large family. They might be hectic, but you’ve never truly felt alone.

 

And when you hear the squalling of the baby start up behind you through the thin wood of your door, you realize that perhaps chores aren’t so bad to do at all. After all, you reason as you start down the path towards the community well, at least there’s no crying babies out  _ here. _

 

It’s just a test, you decide. And it’s one you want to pass, even if it means washing dirty diapers. If you’re devoted, like your parents, they’ll reward you for it. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll let you know who He was, this mysterious patron that your mother always beseeches and promises rewards from someday.

 

Maybe you could even make sure that all the wonderful things your mother promised would finally come true, and your family could really be as happy as all the stories she used to tell you were.

 

All you could do was hope.


End file.
